For the past twelve months, I’ve gone without any real romantic sustenance (translation: fireworks). Months of theorizing have led me to believe Cupid is down in SoCal trying to mend Hollywood’s couple crises.
Meanwhile, as I carry on with my highfalutin, solo-flying adventures here in the Valley, I’ve been approached by a number of Cupid’s matchmaking minions. Take Cate, an acquaintance who recently tried to set me up with her boyfriend’s roommate.
“I know someone who’s purrrrrfect for you!” she squealed as we feasted on extra strength garlic rolls and spaghettini at Dublin’s Tomatina one recent Wednesday night. At first I resisted, preferring my amorous encounters to be less regimented, more serendipitous, but then she said the magic words: “He looks like Ricky Martin, but I swear he’s straight.”
She’d piqued my interest, but she’d also activated my crock-o-baloney sensory system, a shrill warning signal that activates when men sound too good to be true.
Cate, who’s read my local style column since July, went on to mention that Ricky was a male version of me, as in “loves designer clothes and appreciates a good hair conditioner.” To be perfectly honest, “myself” has never been a quality I’ve looked for in the opposite sex and when I considered how little Cate really knew about me, I got a bit nervous. Sending me out with a random stranger was like holding up fashion’s trend du jour and proclaiming, “So you.” Very presumptuous, though well-intentioned.
Yet there was something about the way she peppered her speech with exclamation points, and the fact I needed a date to rouse me out of writer’s block, that made me leap into action. I embraced my inner warrioress and agreed to go on the synchronized Saturday night rendezvous. It was an act of heroism, an optimistic embrace of awkwardness, a testament to my vida loca. Or perhaps it was something in the semifreddo.
Cut to my front door, three days later, the memory of Tomatina’s garlic rolls still fresh on my breath.
Following the advice of my friend Jake, a seasoned blind-dater and loyal Match.com subscriber, I’d strategically parted the blinds so I could see Ricky shake his bob-bon up my driveway before he had a chance to see me (what good is DivineCaroline if I can’t confide in you with these details?).
